


The Book of Night and Fog

by snagov



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Books, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Devotion, Dying Earth, Falling In Love, Fantasy, First Kiss, Libraries, Loosely inspired by The Tain, M/M, Magic, Metafiction, Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:15:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25952782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snagov/pseuds/snagov
Summary: Jonathan Sims is nothing special; which is why he's so surprised to find he's foretold to be The Citadel's next Librarian. But when he sets to work in the library, he finds something strange is happening - to the books and the citizens of his city alike.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 5
Kudos: 29





	The Book of Night and Fog

_"Two hearts that beat as one, we were comrades in the woods,  
men who shared a bed and the same deep sleep after heavy  
fighting in strange territories. Apprentices of Scathach,  
we would ride out together to explore the dark woods."  
\- from The Táin_

Jonathan Sims, you must understand, was a very average young man. He was, as most who fall foul of history, still young. Just on the shy side of twenty, he lived in a simple house on the edge of a large lake with his grandmother. His grandmother had hair as red as rusted wire, always pulled back in a tight bun. She worked as a chef at a nearby restaurant and kept her spices in alphabetical order.

And she kept a very large swatter by the kitchen door, just for the pleasure of killing flies.

The swatter also, on occasion, was something she might threaten to swat _him_ with too, should he dare to be late to supper yet again.

A bell sounded. Once, twice. Jon glanced up, peering through limp, dark hair. It fell to his shoulders and had a habit of falling in his face. The bells of Terminus Est, to all of the city’s inhabitants, were a curiosity. They rang throughout the day, marking the hours as steadily as the sun’s progress across the sky. Yet, locked up in the tower of the Citadel, no one in the city had ever seen them. Nor had they ever met the bellringer.

Perhaps it was not a surprise, the Citadel was as secretive as any other organization in Terminus Est. It stood near the northwest corner of the city, a compound of sprawling, thick stone with arched doorways and heavy wooden doors. Jon sometimes found himself with idle hours and wandering up the river to stand on the bank, looking upward at the strange, half-broken structure. It seemed alive. The walls of eroded stone, knitted together by ivy and moss. Time had consumed half of its tower’s gargoyles, but with the slew of crows that hovered about, you might very well never know it the difference.

Jon had leaned on the gate and tried to see if anyone entered or left the building. No one did. What the inhabitants of the Citadel _did_ precisely was a mystery to Jon and most of the citizens alike. He knew simply that periodically someone would be called to enter the Citadel and they did not, as a general rule, return. It seemed that leaving, much like refusing to go at all, was simply not an option.

* * *

The bell sounded again. Once, twice. It sounded nine times. The final call.

Jon swore under his breath, pushing his hair out of his face. He would need to run to make it back before the city gates closed. He searched for his tackle box and fish catch in the river fog, gathering it up. In the dark, it was hard to see how the land lay. He was careful in picking his way over the grass until finally coming to the edge of the city. The dark stone of the gates swallowed up both him and his shadow alike.

The house Jon lived in with his grandmother was rather small. A narrow brick place, it listed slightly to the side and every window and lintel was crooked. The paint peeled from the shutters and front door. But the garden was well-kept and the steps always swept. The sky was more yellow here than in the rest of the city; most blamed it on the coal stacks nearby.

“And just where the Devil have you been?” She asked him, watching him shut the door as he enters. The door had four locks, all old and very sturdy. The swatter shook upon its hook while Jon fiddled with the familiar ritual. There was a bag of fish pressed against his leg, dripping ocean water into a puddle on the floor. Perch and bream, mostly. A bit of pike. He had been hoping for salmon.

“At the river.”

“You’ve brought it all back with you,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Fish and river alike. Look at this, all over my clean floor.” She sighed, reaching for a mop. “Give them here.”

He passed the catch across, wiping his hands on his dark trousers. She eyed him, twisting the corner of her mouth like a key.

“Go on then, go wash up. Don’t bother with the mess.”

As he bathed, the bathwater ran as brown as the riverbed. Fishing was a habit for Jon, one of the few things he loved best. There was always a quietness to be found upon the river, just one line cast out, waiting for something to happen. Anything, really. A fish. A gull. A boot. Fishing was also one of the few activities that might take someone out beyond the walls of the city, past the looming basalt gates into the deep green woods that make up the _out there._ The river wound through the city of Terminus Est, stealing from where it entered in the north to where it came out near his grandmother’s home in the south. And then out beyond the walls and past the gates, it curved and flowed into the forests of aspen and ash, alder and downy birch.

He did not know where it might travel from there.

“Your supper’s getting cold,” his grandmother said, knocking on the door. His threadbare towel, hung on the door’s hook, fell to the floor.

“In a moment!”

He scrubbed his hair and his body with the tar-scented carbolic soap that his grandmother favored. Only then, washing the cracked mud from his hands and feet, did Jon see the strange black spot on his left palm.

He closed his fist very tight and shut the water off.

* * *

He had not _meant_ to show her. Still, as he reached for the butter dish, his grandmother had grabbed his wrist, her grip tighter than a lobster’s claw. She turned his arm over, baring the black spot to the light. A frown crossed her face. “You've been marked."

"What does it mean?" Jon asked, shifting uneasily.

Her lips were very tight. "They're coming for you."

" _Who_ are?" Jonathan asked, dread growing in his bones. "How do I keep them out then - "

"Jonathan, there's nowhere to _go,_ ” she said, sitting back. “If you're marked, they're very well already on their way."

Simple as that. He looked at the sofa and wondered about pulling it in front of the door.

“Dear, are you quite alright?”

“Yes,” he said, exhaustion in his voice. “Just had - just a shock, that’s all.”

* * *

Someone did come, of course. No one broke the door down, no one swept down the chimney. Instead, they simply knocked upon the front door. Jonathan opened it.

The man who stood on the other side had very white hair. 

"May I come in, Jonathan?" He was slender and tan. When he smiled, Jon saw that his teeth matched and were as white as his hair. In his hands, he held a grey homberg hat, with a fine feather stuck in its ribbon.

"How do you know my name?"

"All in good time," the man said, looking up and around the foyer. "Now, is your grandmother home?"

“No,” Jon said, narrowing his eyes in a healthy suspicion. 

“Jon?” His grandmother called, appearing at just the worst time. 

“Ah! Splendid!” The man said, keeping that awful smile on his face. “The parlor then? Shall we? Perhaps we should all sit down, you know, as civilized people.” 

Jon didn’t know how civilized it was, really, going around putting spots on people. 

Settled in the parlor, one of his thin hands holding a cup of Earl Grey tea, Jon studied the other man more. He was strange-looking. Spare and thin, he sat with his legs primly crossed and a pleasant expression on his face. His suit, just as his hair and teeth, was also white. It was an unsettling look and not one Jon was used to seeing in this part of town. Here, among the fishermen and tanneries, dark fabrics were often worn to hide the dirt.

Looking around the room, Jon was too aware of the shabbiness of their lives. The seams of the sofa were coming undone and it was broken on one side, propped up by a book. They’d never bothered with gathering up and tucking away the television wires, always pushing it to _maybe later._ A horseshoe hung above the door and a crucifix on the opposite wall, remnants of the old religion that only the unfashionable still clung to. Through the kitchen doorway, Jon could still see his breakfast plate left on the counter, the half-eaten toast grown cold and lonely, as abandoned as a good intention. His own black shirt and jacket had some dust on them, but he supposed he was otherwise presentable enough.

“Forgive me, I should have begun by introducing myself. My name is Elias Bouchard.”

“You’re from the Citadel,” his grandmother said. It was not a question.

“I have the pleasure of being the Vicarius to the Head Magistrate of the Citadel, yes. A position, I might add, that I’ve held for quite some time.”

“Vicarius?” Jon asked, frowning.

“Assistant is usually the best description,” Elias said, raising a thoughtful brow. “Or advisor.”

“What do you want?”

“Jonathan - if I may call you Jonathan, that is - don’t be coy. You know very well why I’ve come. You might have that hand buried in your pocket, but we all know what we’d see if you brought it out. Now, why don’t you show us that spot then?”

Jon flushed, for his left hand _was_ dug deep within his trouser pocket, toying with the lint. He reluctantly removed his hand and placed it upon the table, palm up.

“I’m not going,” Jon said.

“Well, I’m afraid _that_ isn’t up for debate. You’ll have a week’s time, of course, to gather up your things and take care of any business that needs attending. I’ll come to collect you on Friday, same time.”

“Pardon me for intruding,” his grandmother said, scratching with one long finger at her red hair. A pen was stuck behind her ear and another in her shirt pocket. “But what shall he do there?”

“Oh, I suppose you will worry but you needn’t. The Citadel takes care of every charge and employee. There will be a training period and apprenticeship, but Jon can look forward to a very secure and comfortable position with us.”

“Doing what though?”

“That, unfortunately, is sensitive information. You’ll know more once - ”

“Christ - yes, I understand. I _know._ Once I’m there.” He sighed and rubbed a tired hand against his face. He was small and slight, with nothing intimidating in his glower. Still, he tried to hunch his shoulders to be more impressive. Elias, if anything, seemed amused.

"My card," Elias said, drawing something from his pocket. Jon frowned at it. It was a tarot card. The Two of Wands. The illustrated man seemed to have Elias’ face. "If you need me," Elias continued, "simply hold two fingers on the card and think of me very hard. I know we got off to the wrong start, but I _do_ promise, I’ll always answer."

After Elias left, Jon locked all the locks up very tight, double and triple-checking them. His grandmother watched him with a concerned look. 

“I’m going to bed,” he said. 

“It’s only one in the afternoon.”

“ _Fantastic_.”

* * *

The next day, on his way home from the market, Jon paused to watch two boys in a fencing match. A small crowd had gathered in a circle around the combatants, cheering and gaping. Someone sold roasted nuts for a few copper coins. Jon bought nothing, keeping his fists firmly closed and his mouth shut, staring ravenously at the dueling rapiers.

When the dust settled and the winner pulled off his helmet, baring his face to the world, the light caught on his straight nose and sharp brow. The boy had a thick jaw and well-muscled neck. His hair was pale and warm, a honey-gold that gleamed beneath the sun. He was tall and his face, while of the same age as Jon, still bore a childish baby fat in his cheeks and throat.

When he looked at Jon, his frank and warm brown eyes turned on Jon’s pale own, his smile was uncertain and hesitant, yet as bright as the sun above. But in a moment, the boy’s father had come cheering. A great mountain of a man, with thighs as thick as whales and the muscled arms of a soldier.

The boy was in training then. War will be his trade.

Seemed odd for a boy with such kind eyes.

Jon felt sick as he watched the boy’s father clap him on the shoulder. It was a strange wound, being left behind. He did not remember either his mother or his father, though his grandmother kept photographs of his mother in delicate frames around the house and lit votive candles to her each evening, sending her prayers up to God and Saint George alike. His father, however, was a different story each time he asked.

 _Who is my father?_ He might ask. And she would say that he is a slippery eel who had changed into a boar, a calf, a raven, and dove, before his mother had lost her grip and he had flown away. She might say that he is the king of a land under the sea and that was why Jon has taken so well to the river, that his father sent the fish right to his net as gifts. She might say that he was a guttersnipe and beggar, someone who hadn’t even the decency to say goodbye to his mother when he’d left. Sometimes, every so often, she told him that his father might be a god. She might tell Jon that his father had been bright and beautiful, a mighty warrior with a fiery spear. That he had loved Jon’s mother and been at her side the night she had given birth.

But you know how love between gods and mortals goes.

It’s never a happy story.


End file.
